“Read it,� she said. “’Tis my father’s last word to me.�
I took it from her and this is what I read:—
My Dear Lucy:
As an ancient King of France once said, everything is lost but honor, and that trembles in the balance. I have speculated, gambled, tempted fortune; first because I loved it and at last hoping to win for you. But everything has gone wrong. You are penniless, even your mother’s fortune, of which she foolishly made me trustee, has followed my own. Master Ficklin may save something from the wreck. I hope so. I can do no more and perhaps, nay certainly, the best thing I can do for you is to leave you. May God help you since I cannot.
Your shamed and unhappy father,
Geoffrey Wilberforce.
Post Scriptum: The last thing that I possess is this scrap of parchment. It has been handed down from father to son for five generations. The tradition of it is lost, but there has always been attached to it a singular value. Perhaps some day the missing part may turn up. There used to be a little image with it, but that has disappeared, too. At any rate, of all that I once had, this alone is left. Should you marry and have children pass it to them, a foolish request, but I am moved to make it as my father made it to me.
G. W.
I read it slowly. It was not a brave man’s letter. I liked Sir Geoffrey less then than ever before. Some of the ancient awe and reverence I felt for the family went out of my heart then. Well, the man was dead, and there was no use dwelling on that any longer. I handed the letter back to Mistress Lucy without comment. As she took it I extended the parchment in the other hand.
“Here,� said I, “is the enclosure to which your father refers. It seems to be a chart or map but in its torn condition it is of but little use.�
She took it listlessly, but as her glance fell upon it her face brightened.